May. 2nd, 2008 | 10:00 pm

Three in the morning, and he paused halfway between nowhere and the yet unattained destination. There was fog, but it was neither cold nor distracting, scarcely even perceptible. If other figures passed by, he didn't see them; if anyone spoke, he heard not a word. There were no shapes, and there was no substance. The place was as vague as he seemed to himself.

He was midway. He didn't know this--though perhaps he felt it in that human sense of timing, the balance that keeps all things running in some strangely patterned, almost clockwork order--didn't know that three hours had passed or that three more would come before he reached the end. Time had ceased to register, though it carried him forward, and he had ceased to wonder at it or at his own passage. The streets and sidewalks had passed away long ago so that they too had become blurred, leaving him in this place that was no place at all. It left him with an almost pleasant sense of disconnection.

Fog and nothing, no sense, no sensation, and only occasionally the passing, darting glance of a question (the question itself almost substantial in this place of haze and ceaseless shifting). He saw and turned from this question, sought elsewhere for sense, sought to embrace this uncertain shifting rather than to give answer to this, of all things. As he turned and the middle came, even this question seemed to recede--did not disappear for good, no, but he ceased to recognize it in that place--and the sense of nothing closed further still.

For a time, he forgot or thought he had forgotten his destination. If he had no destination--as, for a time, was nearly the case--then he was only here and always here. Without sense, without knowing, and without remembering. And while he forgot, he almost understood this to be better, to be less painful and so more inviting. Here there was no need to for reason or pity or forgiveness. Nothing to question. Only alone, almost outside of himself...

The bar. He was going to celebrate Harry's birthday at the bar, just like he did every year. That was a solid thought, something with foundation, but even it melted away as it reached him. It usually meant something, but here the meaning was beside the point. Here, something else held the rule.

It was there and would not tell him, or he would not seek it. It was incomprehensible, darting, and he did not wish to grasp it. Somewhere, he could discern its form, even some sense of its meaning, but he would not reach. He didn't want that, not now, not yet. Not ready (if he would ever be ready) for... For what it was. For the sounding of some wretched (and yet wretchedly welcome), hollow interruption, the final settling, the origin.

Now between the act and the end. But it wasn't supposed to be an end. And as time would move onward and Theodore Hickman would at last begin to walk again, leaving halfway behind, he would vow to make it something else. His point--created, soon to be striven for--would become clearer as he passed away from the middle, would take shape (onto which he would almost fanatically attach himself) as he neared the bar, but for now it was only fog and some vague sense of what had happened, with a lingering dread of why.

Apr. 12th, 2008 | 06:38 pm

Three things? Ohhh, no, I don't really have three things in mind.

Not to be a wet blanket, but honest, I'm only looking forward to one thing right now, and I can tell you what that is... But sure, all right, I don't like to disappoint, so I'll tell you... I wouldn't mind a shot of whiskey, and I guess I'm a little tired, so I won't mind getting some shuteye. There. I'm looking forward to both of those, and now that you know it, we can call it settled, right? But look, it's like I said, I'm only really looking forward to one thing...

All I really want is to see Evelyn again. To explain to her--oh, I'm sure she knows, she's always understood, sometimes more than I might've really wanted her to--to tell her why I did it. To tell her that I--That just for a moment, that one moment...

I know I did the right thing. I've just got to make sure she knows it, and that she doesn't take to heart what happened after. That--You can't do something like what I did and not go out of your mind for a minute. You can't. And she'll understand, I know she will.

I just want to see her again, to talk to her. Don't think I'm going to give up on everything else--no-sir, that's not my way, wouldn't make any sense--but that's all I really want now, and I'm sure I'll see her somewhere. I've got to.

Mar. 15th, 2008 | 01:21 am

I'll sleep just about anywhere, given the right state of consciousness. There was a time I'd catch my sleep in snatches on trains--what little sleep I needed, when I wasn't shaking hands and exchanging greetings--and in back rooms of the shadiest sort. Hardly slept at all in those days, and I guess I never did much learn to keep myself asleep. Always had things to do, and what's sleep but time when you can't be on the lookout for clients or anyone looking for an ear or some encouragement? You fall asleep, and who knows what sort of customers you might miss out on? No sir, long as I could, I'd keep away, and it was never all that difficult.

When I was a kid, I'd sneak outside at night and sleep in the yard, maybe up in the tree. Used to drive my old man nuts when he'd come up for me in the morning and realize I wasn't there, but that never stopped me. Hell, it might've only pushed me on with it. I didn't like being stuck in that house, feeling like there was some sort of arbitrary law of my father's that I had to obey. I liked it better outside, where there was fresh air and I could feel free. Liked it even better than falling asleep in the hooker shop, though I did that a few times, too. And if you don't think my old man blew his lid when he heard about that one... Hooooo boy.

More recently--mostly around Harry's--I've slept sprawled out on floors, slept passed out on tables or in chairs... Wherever I happened to be when the alcohol gave its hardest kick, I guess. It wasn't really something I chose, but then, I didn't exactly rebel against it, either. There's always been something comforting about it, just falling asleep where you need to, knowing you can just fall asleep, then wake up and have another drink, go on laughing and kidding... And it sure beats stumbling out into the cold.

I guess I've made sort of a habit of sleeping wherever I fall, or at least of avoiding any sort of actual bed. Sleep's never been top on my list of important things to do--like I said, it gets in the way--so why worry about it? I'm just as well off on the floor as anywhere.

Not at home, though. And I mean our home, Evelyn's and mine. Everything changed there. Or maybe everything changed outside. Home was for sleeping in a bed, like any regular sort of guy. Behaving as well as I ever could, and sleeping in a bed with my wife. With Evelyn.

And didn't I like that? Christ, yes. Not the bed itself, but just waking up with her, lying beside Evelyn and knowing she was next to me, so I could just be still and feel her there, feel myself beside her, and everything would be so peaceful... God, I loved those moments. Those times. Because I could spend a night like that, even if I didn't fall asleep, even if I only stayed beside her, awake, knowing we were together.

Only I didn't always go straight to bed. I couldn't... Not in good conscience. Especially during the last few years, I'd get restless, I'd start thinking about being on the road and being stuck and what I'd done, what I'd been doing, and then I'd know I couldn't just be still. I might be able to get into that bed, but I couldn't just be beside her, I couldn't be completely silent, and that would have killed everything. I knew it. So I would stay away for a while--as long as was necessary--before I'd actually get into bed, and usually, Evelyn would be asleep by then. Still, she was there, and when I'd finally settled down or gotten tired enough not to mind anything, I could go to her, and everything would seem like it was all right again.

Some nights were worse than others. Some days, too. I'd start thinking about how I didn't deserve to sleep anywhere near someone as good as Evelyn. I'd think how it didn't make sense for me to be sleeping in a house like that; I might have bought it, but Evelyn took care of it, and everything was so clean, and I didn't deserve that. Was always half-worried I might break something, or put something out of place--I'm sure I did, I must have--and I just didn't want to cause poor Evelyn that sort of trouble. And I knew that if I went to sleep in that place, I'd throw something out of balance. I'd never been made for such a nice place as that.

And sometimes, too, I'd think I didn't want it anymore. Not that I didn't want to be with Evelyn, ohhhh no, that was never the case. Just that I couldn't stand the expectations anymore. I wasn't ever made to be like that, sleep in a regular bed every night, follow some sort of regular schedule. Keep the house clean. Behave... But I never could. I never could behave, and that was the trouble. And it got worse and worse.

The only reason I could keep going back was Evelyn. I could never leave her, I could never hurt her like that, and I would never want to. So long as Evelyn was in this world, I felt I couldn't leave her side for long. I'd have to come back after every trip I made, after every drunk I went on, and she'd always be there, waiting for my return, waiting for me to come back...

Well. I always did go back. And even on those nights when I'd stay awake for hours, I'd go to bed before she woke up. I'd make sure I was there, because she expected it, because she needed it, and because she deserved it. I could do that much for her, anyway.

Feb. 24th, 2008 | 03:10 am

Just one? Because I can think of a whole slew of tales my old man used to spin... Christ, he must've had three or four new ones every day, liked to try 'em out on me. Not that any of them ever really got to me, but that's another story. My father was a real pro at kidding anyone and everyone--I may not've liked what he said, but I've got to applaud him for the sort of bull he came up with; it was almost admirable, in its own way--and I'm not sure that he ever got much into that whole business of truth.

I'm not saying my mother was a saint, either. She didn't lie as often, but then, she also didn't say as much. It was the old man who did most of the talking; guess that was always enough for her. You could say she supported him with her silence, if you want, or you can just forget about it. I'm not going to force you, either way.

The point is there were a lot of lies, even if my esteemed father liked to pretend everything he said was the truth. And if ever I questioned him--which, of course, I did--he'd pull that "honor thy father and mother" bunk, expecting me to fall for it. Expecting me to believe that face he put on for the whole town, the "holier than thou and here to save you" look of a minister that they wanted to see. Ohhh, when people saw my old man walking down the street, they knew he was a preacher, no doubt about that. And he liked them to know, not that he'd ever come out and admit it.

Of course, a minister never lies, or even misleads just a little bit... And if you believe that, we-ell, you're an even bigger sucker than most, and that's saying something. I don't even know what the hell a minister's supposed to tell the truth about. Sure, he can spout off some sort of bull about what he thinks is the "moral" life, or the "good" life, but that's mostly a matter of opinion. Most of 'em don't stick to that sort of advice, anyway. They start in on hell and damnation and whatever sort of God they've got up in the sky, but what the hell do they actually know about any of that? Not a thing, boys and girls; not a thing. What you need to teach is experience, and here's no chance of them having any of that.

So my old man was a father and a minister. That's two strikes against him, right there, and he never really tried to get over any of that. I mean, he'd try making me believe his stories, but he was never really convincing, and I never bought it. Talking back in school gives a bad mark in some sainted book in heaven? All right, I'll fill a whole page with my name. Hanging out with hookers is a sure ticket to hell? We-ell, give me a girl, and sign me up for a one-way trip to visit that old devil. Maybe I'll send you a postcard, just to let you know how it is, whether you managed to be right about any of it. Who knows; maybe you got lucky.

He didn't like my kidding back, but that goes without saying. See, that was the problem with my old man's line of bull: he took himself too seriously. I don't know whether he actually believed what he said, but he sure liked to act as if he did. I learned what all of it really meant early on, and I learned how to take his bull, but I could never understand why he had to be so serious about it all the time. It wasn't as if everything he was talking about really was the end of the world; he should've known that. Ahhh well. I've never claimed to know everything about what my father did; I can just say he lied, and I'm pretty sure he liked those lies well enough to pretend he really did believe.

Living with a piece of work like that, is it any wonder I got to be so damned good at kidding others? I've said it before, and I'll confess it again: I owe my old man for that knack of mine, anyway.

Feb. 2nd, 2008 | 09:33 pm

Lack of Iceman clips on Youtube was making for great sadness. Trial version of DVD-ripping software has made for great happiness. And so... Iceman clips. ZAH. These... aren't actually in order play/movie-wise, but this is how I decided to set them, so damnit, there they be.

Done for now, I swear. Though I recommend the Long Day's Journey clips, as well (and Hugo's drunken tirade, just for kicks <.<).

And while I'm OOCing, a quote (1925 interview with Flora Merrill, as published in Conversations With Eugene O'Neill, which is--I might say--one helluva colelction):

"The tragedy of life is what makes it worthwhile... I think that any life which merits living lies in the effort to realize some dream, and the higher that dream is the harder it is to realize. Most decidedly we must all have our dreams. If one hasn't them, one might as well be dead--one is dead. The only success is in failure. Any man who has a big enough dream must be a failure and must accept that as one of th conditions of being alive. If he ever thinks for a moment that he is a success then he is finished. He stops."-Eugene O'Neill

Jan. 26th, 2008 | 01:47 pm

Oh, I see what you're getting at.

I'm not going to kid around and say I've never been with the sort of women who'll try to seduce you. Hell, I've knocked around with whores all my life, since I was back in that hick town. They're great girls and all--most of 'em, anyway--but I never fell for their tricks. Saying they love you. Getting real close. Whispering the sort of things they think you want to hear. It was all well and good for a distraction, but I wouldn't call that seduction.

You see, they never won me over. I knew the game too well to be fooled. I'd think to myself I liked the girls, sure, but I knew all the time I never loved them. Never fell for them the way they wanted, though I could kid 'em I did. They liked to hear that.

I've only ever really been seduced by one woman, and that was Evelyn. Now, I know, you might roll your eyes and say to yourselves I'm not being straight with you, but it's the truth. She had me, no question about it, and ever since, she's been the only one I loved.

The thing of it is, she didn't even have to do anything; it just happened. One look at her, the way she walked, the way she looked at me--the things I saw in her eyes... I've never seen anything close to that, ever--like she understood something, everything. Like she never wanted or needed to look away. And I knew from the first time I looked at her that I needed her, just like she needed me. We were just kids, but a part of me knew--I swear to you--and I never forgot that. It sounds nuts, I know, but that's simply the way it was. And after, I got to know more and more how true it was.

It was real, her affection for me--and mine for her--and how could I argue with anything like that? Everything else... Well, it was all true enough in some way, I suppose, but there was always a sort of lie in it. Always something that they were trying to get out of me, or I was trying to get out of them. The same old kidding along. It's great for just playing along, sure, and great for selling things to people, but it gets to you, eventually. I saw too much of that joking, I guess, and I'd wonder whether we only could kid ourselves along. But Evelyn was different. Everything about her was honest and true, and...

God, I loved her.

Even now, when she's--when she isn't here, it gets me. Because I remember. Hell, I never can forget, and I never will. She meant too damn much. I still know the way she looked at me, the way she used to put her hand on me or just lie next to me, letting me touch her hair, and just feeling safe, feeling comfortable. Feeling like it mattered.

And when I'd leave, I'd miss her. Yes, I'd miss the way she felt against me, even the way she looked just standing across the room. And no matter where I went, what I did... No matter what I did, I remembered, and I missed her. Nothing could make me forget that.

So, yes, she seduced me. Easy as that.

How else could anyone get a guy like me to settle down, even for a few months? I never could sit still, couldn't stay in one place, but there we were, buying a house. And I'd always come back to it; I'd want to come back to it, and to her.

And how else could a woman be the only one on my mind, even when I saw... when I was with others? Christ, I'd see her everywhere, I'd feel her everywhere, and sometimes I'd close my eyes and almost think the whores I messed with--Christ. Ah, Christ, that... That was different. They were different, and I knew it. Never could really make myself believe otherwise, and wouldn't have wanted to. She--Evelyn deserved better than that. And I--Never mind that. I did...

It wasn't anything. Because I did know the difference, and it was just a distraction, to keep the walls from closing in on me. Hotel rooms can get awfully lonely, and thinking about Evelyn--how I was away from her, how I couldn't look at her, no matter how much I wanted--only made it worse. A guy's got to keep himself from going completely nuts, and that's all it was.

I won't lie. I've done some things I'm not proud of, I'll tell you that. Hell, I've said as much before, and I might as well confess...

But no matter what I did, I swear to you, I've never stopped loving Evelyn. I can't forget her, the way she looked at me--always--and I never will.

Jan. 2nd, 2008 | 01:02 am

I can't get this song outta my head.

It's not that it's a particularly bad song, ohhhh no. 'The Sunshine of Paradise Alley.' You must've heard it, some time. I never had a problem with it. Not a one. It's just... Well, it's not my song. It's Harry's. I guess you could say it was his wife's, but the way I see it, it's his. Maybe all of the gang's. I don't know that any of 'em but Harry ever really took to it, but it's what I heard the last time I was there, so... Well, I guess it just stuck.

It's funny, the things a song can do to your head. Gets it running in circles, stops making sense pretty soon.

Thought it'd go away as soon as I drank enough, but I should've known better, there. I can't drink enough to drown anything for good--especially not now--and drinking's never really made music fade any. Fact is, guys tend to sing more when they're soused, and true to form, the song just keeps getting stronger. It's gotten so I wake up in the middle of the night with that damned tune plinking through my head, and I just stare into space and think it'll go, but it doesn't.

I'll find myself singing it, too. Just walking around or sitting, and suddenly I'll realize that I've been singing for the past half hour, and that it's been the same tune. Doesn't matter how much I've had to drink, or what I've been doing or even thinking... It's there, and then I start thinking about the gang, and I can;t stop that or the song.

I've gotta figure this out.

I've gotta stop drinking so much, too. Promised I was off the stuff, and I was. It was only recently I started again, only when I realized... Still, it's no excuse. I don't need it, it's not doing a damned thing for me now, and I might as well stop.

That's not the point. All right. See, we were celebrating Harry's... That's Harry Hope, hell of a guy, and a lot softer-hearted than he'd like you to think, always open the doors to us hapless drunks (ye-es, even the broke ones, if he liked you). We were celebrating Harry's birthday, and I had it all set up so we'd sing an old favorite of Harry's. Cora might not've played in a while, but she was picking it out all right on the old piano, and we all sang with her, and until Harry busted out not feeling right about everything, it sounded pretty decent.

The song's so damned... Pleasant. That's what gets me. It's pleasant, but it isn't, not with what happened, or didn't happen, if you see what I'm saying. It should've worked. They were supposed to see just what they'd been lying to themselves about all these years, to see the truth and accept it, and finally be at peace. And they started in that direction! I set them off--and it didn't take much to just get 'em started toward the door, oh no, though it took a lot to get them out of it--and they saw. By all rights, they should have understood! After those first minutes, the time of thinking it was all a mess, they should've seen the truth: that they'd finally found peace.

Didn't work like that, though. Something went wrong, somewhere, and I just can't figure where.

And when I think, the way the girls were dancing while Cora played that damned song--and Joe helping her out on it--the way everyone sang it just for Harry, because we all... But it was there, too. Even while they were singing. Guess I should've seen it at Harry's party, when they were all so glum, but I figured they were just edgy about what they'd started to see. They didn't want to face themselves, and who can blame 'em? I sure as hell don't, not after what I felt about it, and I don't think a damn person in the world could point a finger at them. Well, not most people, anyway, and those who have a right wouldn't want to, so that's all beside the point.

And you know what? I still think they could've done it. In fact, I know it. They could have seen the way, what it was they needed to do, if only they'd--If only I'd--Hell. It just didn't go off the way it needed to, I'm convinced of that. If only I knew what it was...

Point is I left them before they had it figured out. And the whole time I was there, it was like they were fighting against me, and I know they started to hate me for what I was saying. Larry said it best, the way he always does; I might hit him with the Old Foolosopher line, but he's got things right more often than most any guy I've ever met, whether he really knows it or not. And even if they hadn't said it, I could've seen it clear enough, the way they were acting and looking at me. Well, I can't blame them for that, either: no one likes the truth, or the guy who tells it. I've said that one often enough, myself. Still, it didn't feel great on the receiving end, you know. Coming from all of them, it got to be pretty damned unpleasant.

It was supposed to be a party, like I said. And by 'party,' I mean in our more traditional terms that we were supposed to get soused and kid each other till the dough ran out or we all passed out (and it was never a case of the second, I can tell you). Adding all the trappings made it different, and I guess the guys resented that, somehow. Birthdays tell you too much about time, let you know that it is tomorrow, and what did any of us ever care about anything except booze, when we were at Harry's? So the cake and the song and everything else wasn't what they wanted, exactly--almost seemed like they thought it was intrusion, like anything that happened that day was an intrusion--but I swear they liked it all well enough. It meant something. Singing like that, together, they sounded happy, and I knew it was possible to do what they needed.

And the song. 'Always jolly, heart that is true, I know.' Hell, that's the gang all over. Ahhh, I know they don't all look like much--none of us do; hell, I was almost respectable in that bunch--but they're damned decent, every one of them, always ready to smile and welcome you in. And they'd mean it, too--mostly, anyway--so you could just sit talking and know you were with friends. Annnnd they stuck together, made their own sort of family. I'm damned proud to say I was a part of it.

This last trip was the only time I ever saw the gang get really angry and, well, I already told you why that all happened. So there was that song, and that's them, but there was also the way they were singing it, or the way they looked after... Hell. It's all coming together so I can't see it straight. Same as before. Every time I try thinking about it, the song comes and gets everything even more twisted, and I end up taking a drink, trying to make it settle itself out. I'm sure you can guess how much good that's done.

The gang, the real sunshine of... Christ. Sometimes I just don't know if I'll ever get it out of my head.

Dec. 26th, 2007 | 01:56 am

Hickey and I would like to give all kinds of thanks to the one responsible for this absoltuely holywhoa journal giftie.

Seriously. Playing with icons is all kinds of rad.

And we haaaaaaaave our VERY STRONG guesses, though the mun is too much of a muttermutter to say anything, and she won't let Hickey open his trap about it (much as he might WANT to). But, herm, WHOEVER YOU ARE... We both thank yeh most kindly.

Dec. 23rd, 2007 | 10:49 pm

John wraps his throat warm in his new long woolen scarf. It is novel to him and he is very pleased with it, almost proud. He tucks an extra flask in the inside pocket of his great fur-trimmed coat, for it will be cold in the snow. The whole idea of caroling with his friend makes him pleased and proud, as he thinks of it. He tugs on his gloves and picks up the music books and his cane.

The snow makes the streets and country and world look like a Christmas card. Large enough flakes are falling that he believes he could count their points. Their friends. It is a tradition he has always watched almost enviously, and now he will bring it to some of those he loves. With Hickey. He smiles, his heart open, glad and warm. He has been looking forward to this.

--------------------------------------------

It's the evening, the one he's been looking forward to; Hickey realizes this much with a start.

He's been drifting. He's been singing, too, though he only realizes it now, and it hasn't been any sort of Christmas carol. The same damned tune over and over--He can't get over it. Seems it's been going through head since... Well, since a couple of days ago, whatever that was.

'Always jolly, heart that is true I know...'

Christ. That's enough of that, more than enough of that. As he rises (having less trouble about that than he might have expected... but then, he'd gotten used to drinking early enough in life that it couldn't do too much damage now), he reminds himself of what he needs to do before going anywhere. Make sure he looks presentable--fix the vest, comb the hair--make sure he'll be warm enough--find a warm jacket; he has one around here somewhere, has to. Maybe have another drink, too.

But whatever he does, he'll shake this goddamned funk. This isn't any state to be meeting the Doc in, and Hickey doesn't want it to go like that, anyway. By all rights, this is going to be a good time. Caroling. Hell, he's never done it before--Evelyn (ahhh, Christ) had talked about it, but they'd never really gotten around to doing anything of the sort--and it sounds like fun. Something to get out and do. And it's with the Doc; helluva guy, so far as Hickey can figure (and usually, he figures pretty damned well).

All right, there. He's gotten himself into a presentable state. And his head's spinning a little, sure, but that's nothing; that'll go as soon as he sees the Doc, he knows. You learn to handle it. Not that he should've been drinking--he feels a twinge of guilt at that; hardly remembers when he started, but knows he shouldn't have even touched the stuff--but he can't deny it, and he can at least be glad that he can deal with it. Could be worse.

He's as ready as he'll ever be. Even feeling the excitement of it, and he's glad for that. Wouldn't miss this for the world--Though another drink might be in order.

No. Nuh-uh. He's said no, vowed off the stuff... But with the way he's been going, what's one more drink? He takes a quick one, then, before setting the bottle aside (almost violently, a rejection) and moving toward the door. Best be getting out before he decides to take another. Before anything--

'But a maiden so sweet, lives in that little street...'

Before any of that starts again. Hell. At the very least, those Christmas carols should get rid of that tune; there's some relief in that, too.

He heads out into the snow, finding that the sudden cold shakes into more of an awareness. Good. Now he's just got to find the Doc.

--------------------------------------------

John sees Hickey coming towards him through the softly falling snow and fairly beams, holding out his friend's copy of the book. Carols. John remembers them, but has not memorised them, and in any case it is better to have something solid to hold and read. His friend looks less than absolutely steady, but perhaps the bracing cold, cheer and exercise will help him come to himself. Something almost sad there, or wistful maybe. John does not yet know, exactly and considers offering his flask, which steadies him, but it is perhaps too early yet to need its warmth. He pats his shoulder and offers his hand to shake after the manner of gentlemen. His eyes are focussed, keen and smiling in anticipation. Perhaps they can stop at a cafe for chocolate later, if they get cold.

--------------------------------------------

Now, that's good.

Hickey smiles at the Doc, and it feels natural, like it should. It's good to see him, to take the book of carols--he's seen these before, but hasn't touched one in a while--and to shake the Doc's hand. That's real enough, and so's the way the Doc appears; looks like he should be there, and by God, that's a welcoming face he's got. Keen enough, sure, and honest. You can trust a guy like that, and already Hickey's feeling a little more himself.